I'll Be Your Shelter
by HardfacedQueenofMisadventure
Summary: In New York, inviting a stranger in for the night can have consequences, both good and bad. A rather cliche but hopefully not too bad Roger/OC (please don't hurt me) story. T for swearing, drug use, violence, references to AIDS, you know, RENT stuff. For KissTheBoy7, who asked for it. Majority movie-verse, because that was all I had seen at the time of writing.
1. All Things Have Their End

Chapter 1- All Things Have Their End

30th January 1991

_Mimi,_

_We said there was no day but today, didn't we?_

_Guess we forgot about tomorrow._

_In a perfect world, we would have died together, after a long and happy relationship. I overestimated a little. Turns out you were a lot sicker than anyone would have guessed. No doctor in the world could have predicted how quickly the virus would have taken you. Your tomorrow has come, but for me it is still today. _

_God only knows when tomorrow will finally come. _

_Until then, I will always remember the night I lit your candle, and the evening I finally saw that light for what it was. _

_With Love, _

_Roger x_

His first thought, looking at the letter he clutched in his hand was: _is the kiss a bit too much? Could it be considered tacky? Insincere?_ He stared down at the piece of paper, deliberating for a minute, before balling it up and sending it sailing towards the bin to join its companions. _How hard can it_ _honestly be to write a letter to the girl you love? Well, when she's been dead a month,_ _pretty hard, obviously._ He sighed in frustration, briefly wondered whether to give the letter a sixth shot, and gave up. He sank down onto the sofa, head in his hands, feeling restless and wondering what the hell to do with himself. It suddenly struck him that he was sitting exactly where Mimi had the night she… _Just think it, Roger. It's been too long since it happened to deny it or to try to sweep_ _it under the rug. Think the words: Mimi is… No._ He just couldn't get his mind around the concept. He stood with a sigh. From where he was positioned he could clearly see the bathtub through the bathroom door. _That's where you found April._ He pulled his hands through his hair, wanting to shut his brain up and not knowing how. _This isn't natural. It can't be. Surely this long after someone you love leaves you, you_ _should have come to terms with it, right? I shouldn't still be dwelling on it like this, should I?_ It was times like this that reminded him of a time long ago when he used to shoot himself up. For a second he almost found himself craving the blissful feeling of peace and oblivion that accompanied the use of heroin. But he had helped Mimi to stay clean, and it almost seemed an insult to her to start using again just because she had died. _Got to get out of here. I just need some air. Air now, letter-writing_ _later._ With his thoughts put on hold for the time being, he left.

* * *

_There's a lesson to be learned from all this, Abbi. Never get in a fight with a heroin dealer. More specifically, never get in a fight with a heroin dealer who's almost twice your size and who owns your apartment. _She slowly opened her eyes. So far, painless. Good. Nothing felt broken, so she decided to sit up. A few aches and pains came to her attention, but nothing that screamed at her _get to the ER, _so she pulled herself into a standing position. Not such a good idea. Her head spun like a thrill ride and her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn giraffe's. _You're_ _lucky to be alive, stupid girl. _She slumped against the wall, closing her eyes with a quiet moan. Fortunately the alleyway was deserted, so she could whimper and lick her wounds at leisure without fear of being seen. She started to do a little head-to-toe check. _Face feels pretty much intact, oh, nope, there's some blood there. And, ow! Head bump. Okay, arms… bruised but not broken. Ditto ribcage. Legs: unsteady, but whole. Feet… huh. Bare. What the hell happened to my shoes? And my socks, where'd they go? _The bastard had probably just dragged her from the apartment as she was, without giving her time to get ready for a night on the streets. _Oh joy. This day just gets better and better. Barefoot, homeless, and… _A large raindrop landed on the tip of her nose, and she sighed… _And soon to be soaking wet. _Exhausted beyond the point of endurance, she sank back to the floor just as the rain really started to pour. She rested her chin on her knees and closed her eyes. Ten minutes later, when she opened them again, she expected to see bare brick, possibly a faded, torn poster or two. Instead she found herself face to face with a man. She jolted back, startled by his sudden appearance. His dark, cool green eyes were fixed on her face with something close to concern.

"Hey," he whispered. _Am I hallucinating, or is there really a Jon Bon Jovi wannabe standing right in front of me right now? _

"Uh, hi," she said weakly, wondering if talking to a hallucination qualified as a sign of madness.

"Are you okay?" _Oh, so he's a _friendly_ product of my battered mind. That's interesting._

"I guess." She shrugged. "I'm alive, anyway."

"I saw what happened just now. You ought to be more careful." _Friendly becomes…mildly irritating._

"I can handle myself, thanks." He nodded, raising one eyebrow like he didn't exactly believe her. She straightened up self-consciously under his scrutinising gaze.

"Yeah, that's easy enough to see. Have you seen your face?" She scoffed.

"You see a mirror anywhere around here?" she countered smartly. He nodded once.

"Touché." He drew back and stood up, then held out his hand to help her to her feet. She accepted, hauling herself upright and brushing down her clothes. _Okay, so maybe he's not some kind of freaky trip after all. _His hand was cold against hers, but his grip was comfortingly firm. He remained holding on long after she had balanced herself, she looked down pointedly and he dropped her hand like it was red hot. They stood in silence, eyeing each other awkwardly. Abbi swiped at the blood running from her nose with the back of her hand, caught his eye and blushed.

"Looks nasty," he commented. She shrugged again.

"I've had worse."

"Who was it?" _What do you care, anyway? _

"Just some guy. He's kinda meant to be my friend. Or so he says."

"Name?"

"I don't actually know. Pretty bad, considering I live with him." _Why are we even _having_ this conversation? It's not like you actually care what happened to me. _She began backing off.

"Look, it was nice meeting you, whoever you are, but I'd better go." She turned sharply on her heel, but the sudden movement made her light-headed. She swayed a little where she stood, hoping that she wouldn't do something humiliating like pass out in front of him. Just as she felt herself start to fall, he caught her shoulders from behind, carefully steadying her. It was on the tip of her tongue to yell at him to let go of her and pull away, to back off, but she couldn't quite manage it. Against her will, utterly unbidden, she found herself relaxing into the warmth of his body. She sighed. It felt surprisingly nice to let her legs give out and have someone else there to make sure she didn't hit the floor.

"You probably need to get checked out, make sure you're not too badly hurt," he said, stripping off his leather jacket and folding it around her bare shoulders. She shrugged, thrown off guard by his gentlemanly concern.

"No, I'll be okay."

"Are you sure?" _No. No I'm not sure at all. But I can't tell you that. _She stood back up and nodded, but not before her face could betray her true feelings. He nodded again, as though she had spoken.

"Come with me. Come and get cleaned up." She was startled by the suddenness and sincerity of the offer.

"Uh…no. No, that's okay. Thanks anyway."

"Sure? My home's not far from here. Literally up the road. It won't take long, honest." She paused, biting her lip. _Not every day you get an offer like that. And I bet his place has central heating. Better that than freezing to death out here. _She looked at him and shrugged.

"Okay then."

"Cool. You can actually walk, right? I'm not gonna have to drag you along the floor by your wrists or anything?" She smirked.

"I think I'll survive." He touched her shoulder and began to walk. She followed a few paces behind him, keeping quiet. Every so often he turned his head, as if to check that she was still there.

"I'm Roger, by the way," he said quietly.

"Just call me Abbi." He turned his head again and smiled. She smiled back, pulling his coat tighter around her as the wind blew.

**(A/N: I've had this written for ages, but it took me a while to work up the courage to publish it. To the two/three readers of Angel's Grace, that has not been forgotten. I just have several chapters of this story in the pipeline. Any feedback would be lovely, but hate will be ignored and offenders blocked. Happy New Year, bitches!)**


	2. Unwanted Responsibility

**A/N: Thanks everyone for your feedback. Hopefully you'll like this chapter too :)**

Chapter 2- Unwanted Responsibility

_Poor kid. _Even under the heavy Goth makeup she wore, he knew that Abbi couldn't really be that much older than eighteen. She was pretty small; her head only just reached his shoulder height. And she was also rather skinny. Not in the willowy, desirable, fashion model sense either. She reminded him more of an alley cat: barely enough skin to cover her bones, but beneath it, sinew and muscle no doubt developed from a lifetime of having to fight. She followed him warily, keeping a couple of paces behind. And she kept looking behind her, as though she were afraid of being followed. _Okay. Not how I planned the evening at all. _He had come out looking for air, and returned with a scrawny little street waif. He unlocked the door to his apartment, gestured for her to go inside and followed behind, shutting the door behind him. She stood in the middle of the room, taking in her surroundings and waiting for him to join her.

"You can sit down, if you want." She headed for the sofa in the corner, and he noticed that she was limping a little, recoiling with pain every time her heel touched the smooth floorboards.

"You do something to your foot?" She looked down and shrugged. Roger sat beside her; she edged away ever so slightly.

"Here. Let me see." She lifted her foot to show him. He could see a jagged scrap of glass sticking deep into the skin.

"Jesus. How'd you do that?" She shrugged again, looking down at her foot with a bemused expression.

"No idea."

"Stay here. I'll be right back." He dashed off and returned with a small plaster, some cotton wool and warm water, and a bottle of antiseptic spray. He continued to question her as he performed his little operation.

"So, who attacked you?"

"He's my boyfriend. Well, sort of. I live with him, and he's mostly _nice _to me." Her words had a bitter twist to them, and she clenched her fists as she spoke. "I pay him rent, and he gives me food and clothes and other stuff. But tonight, he kind of got drunk and accused me of stealing something from him. That's nothing unusual; drinking really screws him up. He caught up with me at home when I came back from work, demanded his stuff back right there and then. I tried to explain, but he kicked the crap out of me and told me I'd better come clean or get out of his hair. Guess what? I was dumb enough to go with option B. I don't actually remember much until I woke up in that alley - _Ow!" _ She broke off with a yelp as he sprayed antiseptic over her foot. He paused mid-spray.

"Sorry, sorry. So, have you got somewhere to go?"

"Uh, kinda. There's a hostel a few blocks away. I've been there before when things have gotten bad. 'Cept they charge. But I'm sure I can work up a bit of cash." She flicked her gaze away from his face as she spoke, staring into the corner of the room. They were both silent for a few minutes. She started playing with her hair in a distracted way. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Uh, Abbi?" She turned her head, fingers still entangled in her straggly fringe.

"Uh-huh?"

"You c-could stay here for a couple of days, if you wanted to." He knew it was an offer that she was likely to refuse, but he made it anyway. Just to feel as though he had done something. She visibly hesitated, biting her lip and glancing at him with a guilty look in her eyes.

"I couldn't. Sorry Roger, but it's a no."

"Why's that?"

"I'm broke. I've got no way of payin' you back."

"Did I say anything about payment? No. I asked if you wanted to stay here for a while." She raised her eyebrows, looking at him like he'd just gone completely mad.

"You mean…for free?" He nodded.

"Sure. I don't see a problem with that. Unless you do, that is." She shook her head hurriedly.

"That's nice of you. I mean really. There aren't many people out there who'd be willing to do the same." He shrugged.

"Think nothin' of it. Besides," He eyed her up and down as he spoke, "it's not as though you take up all that much space." She smirked, and gave him a joking glare. Then her face softened.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't mention it. Now… Do you wanna go freshen up or something? Bathroom's through there." He nodded towards a door. She stood and headed in the direction he had indicated. After a few minutes he heard the sounds of running water.

"I might not have paid my hot water bill this month, though," he called to her. She may or may not have heard, but a sudden squeal told him everything he needed to know.

* * *

Despite the fact that the water felt uncomfortably cool, verging on freezing cold, Abbi was actually enjoying herself. _A real bath, with bubbles, that isn't in the sink of a nightclub. When was the last time that happened? _She lay back in the cold water, happy to scrub away whatever remained of the day's trouble. One thing was for certain: Roger had been right about the bruises. Livid purple marks covered her chest, stomach and arms. Something else was there on her arms too. Little pin-prick scars, and lines travelling up and down the veins, evidence of the damage she had caused them. _Speaking of which… _She stood up in the tub and reached for her discarded jeans, rummaging in the pockets one by one. They all came up empty.

"Shit," she murmured. Then, much louder as she realised the gravity of the situation, "_Shit!" _She'd lost her stash. Well, not technically _her_ stash. She'd _accidentally_ removed the little packet of white powder from the pocket of her landlord's jeans the other night, and had been carrying it about with her since. And now, it was gone. Her last smack, now probably lying abandoned in the snow. Poor little bag of heroin, just waiting to be found by some other poor little junkie. _Oh well, no big deal. I'll be out of here by midnight. Just me, a street corner, and a needle. _The door opened and she jumped, letting her tattered, filthy jeans fall to the floor. Only Roger. Well, technically, Roger's hands and a pile of clean clothes.

"Thanks," she called out just as the door closed. _Just remember, you won't be here long. _She clambered out of the tub; towelled off and dressed in the clothes she had been given. They were a few sizes too big, but it didn't matter that much. _Yep, couple hours here and I'm gone._

* * *

Abbi was scarcely recognizable as the same person without the make-up. Instead of that unearthly white, her skin was a very pale , sickly cream shade, deepening to light pink along her too-prominent cheekbones and dotted here and there with bruises. And the clothes he had given her – a loose jumper and a pair of sweatpants – only served to accentuate her tiny frame. Her eyes caught his and she folded her arms. Realising he had been staring; he dropped his gaze to the floor.

"What?"

"Nothing. You just look, ah, really different under all the make-up." _That's putting it mildly. _She arched an eyebrow quizzically.

"Is that a compliment? Or is it a polite way of saying: 'Oh, good God, go and put the make-up back on before I lose my eyesight'?" He was completely lost for an answer. She'd probably take the first as a come-on, and she didn't seem the type to accept that kind of thing readily. And the second option was definitely a direct line to a punch in the face. So he just shrugged. She giggled.

"Jeez, I was kidding. Mind if I sit down a sec?" She nodded towards the sofa.

"Go ahead. What's mine is yours." She curled up on one side of the sofa like a cat, resting her head on her arms and watching him intently. He glanced over at the clock. 2 am. _Shit. How'd it get so late?_

"Yeah, you must be pretty tired. It's late, y'know." She nodded.

"Yep. Kinda sleepy." She yawned and her eyelids drooped a little.

"You can sleep if you like. There should be a blanket or something down there somewhere." He pointed, and she sat up and swung over the side of the sofa, peering underneath it. She came back up with a tightly folded fleece blanket, which she opened up and wrapped round herself, curling up in a tight ball with her knees tucked up against her chest. He nodded.

"Okay. 'Night. I'll be in that room there if you need anything." He turned and headed for his bedroom, switching off the light as he went.

Once behind his own door he had the luxury of thinking. _What the hell _was_ I thinking? What made me think that this was a good idea? _Okay, he didn't exactly mind having Abbi around, she seemed okay, but something told him that nothing good could come of it. Nothing good ever came of him having women in his life. _She's not in your life. She's on your couch. Sleeping. And possibly earning herself a very sore back in the process. This isn't gonna be like Mimi all over again and you know it. _He lay back on his bed with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. _It's late. I should go to sleep. No, later. Wait, I said I'd try to write that letter again later. Guess what, Roger, it's later. _He got up and grabbed a notepad from the corner of the room, and began writing the beginnings of a letter.

_Mimi,_

_Today I started out wanting to talk to you, but I couldn't find the words. I don't want to go through the motions, you know: I miss you, I wish there was a way I could see you again etc. Because I know you'd hate it. But all those tried and true cliches seem to sum up the way I feel. I __do__ miss you, Mimi. I __do__ wish I could see you again. Maybe sometime soon I will.  
Till then,  
Roger_

He tossed the notepad across the room, too tired and dejected to even glance at what he had written and deem it usable or not. He hadn't heard a single sound from the other room, so he assumed that Abbi was out cold. Still fully dressed, he dropped back onto his bed and closed his eyes. It was hours before he actually slept.

* * *

Abbi slowly sat up, finally positive that Roger was asleep or at the very least too busy to notice her slipping out. Okay, so it wasn't as though she thought he'd actually care, after all, they had literally just met, but it felt rude somehow to just walk out of someone's apartment after they'd told you that you were welcome to stay. She began padding towards the door on tiptoe, wondering how she was supposed to open it without making a noise. She placed one hand against the cold metal, and a sudden thud from the other room made her jump, yelp and dive back under her blanket like a child afraid of a closet-monster. _Shit! So, so close. _She stayed frozen where she was, waiting until she was certain that Roger had gone back to sleep. Her own eyelids began to droop. She rubbed at them furiously. _No, don't even think about getting comfy here, Abbi! _She held her eyes open for as long as she could, before, unbidden and definitely unwanted; a wave of sleepiness rose up and claimed her. Her eyes closed, and that was it.

**A/N: I'm trying to stay on the right side of cliche here. Personally, I think I'm failing miserably, but I want to hear your opinions too. Review generously. :)**


	3. Discovery

Chapter 3- Discovery

**A/N: This one's long. Just saying.**

_Where the hell am I? _Her first thought as soon as she regained consciousness was that she was curled up on the floor of her dealer's apartment, sleeping off the previous night's high. But as her senses returned, she realized that it was way too warm and comfy to be that particular floor. She opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming in from the large window that dominated the far wall. _Oh, crap. I'm still here. _She sat up and ran her hands through her short-cut hair, spiking it into oblivion. A vague thrill of nausea coursed through her, and her entire body ached dully. _That's to be expected after a night spent getting your head kicked in though, isn't it? _Roger's bedroom door was wide open; she could see his bed, it looked empty. _Where'd he go? _A wintry breeze caught her attention and she saw that one of the large windows was hanging open. It led out to the fire escape balcony. Shivering a little in the cold morning air, Abbi poked her head outside. Roger was standing there, leaning against the handrail and smoking a cigarette. He didn't seem to have noticed her. She cleared her throat and he whipped round, evidently having been snapped out of a deep early morning daydream.

"Oh, you're up," he commented, taking a deep drag and exhaling smoke, careful to turn his face away from her. "I just came out here 'cause I needed a smoke and didn't know whether you were asthmatic or not. Are you?"

"No. In fact, got a spare on you?" He passed her a cigarette and his book of matches. She lit up and stood beside him, drawing the smoke deep into her lungs before exhaling and watching the swirling greyish cloud as it rose and dissipated.

"Hungry?" Roger murmured. It took her a little while to realise that he was actually addressing her. She nodded. He stubbed his cigarette out and flicked the butt over the balcony. She followed suit, although she'd barely begun on hers. She watched him open the fridge, but the contents must've been pretty discouraging because he quickly drew away, slamming the door.

"Uh, on second thought, do you feel like going out for breakfast? I know this little diner a few blocks away…?" She shrugged.

"Okay, sure."

"Right. Now, I sorted out some clothes for you before you woke up. The sizes might not be quite right, but…" He smiled ruefully.

"That's fine. Thank you."

"Oh, and there's also an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. Completely unused... Well, more or less." She smiled gratefully, thanked him again and wandered off to wash up and get changed.

_Well, he was right about the sizes. If I didn't feel tiny before today…I definitely do now. _The T-shirt – depicting some band called Mute – hung loosely off of her, but it didn't really matter. And the jeans, although tightly belted, had to be adjusted on her waist every few minutes. But at least she didn't look like she'd crawled out from behind a Dumpster that morning. _Even if I feel that way._

* * *

Inside the diner, Roger couldn't help noticing that Abbi looked uncomfortable. She kept shooting nervous glances left and right, playing with her hair, clenching and unclenching her fists. He wondered what the cause of her anxiety was, but decided it was better not to ask. Her eyes landed on his face for a moment and she managed a tight smile, before beginning to scrape away at her already pretty chipped black nail polish. Finally their orders arrived and he was able to distract her from her jittery fit with a plate of pancakes. She flashed him another smile – a genuinely happy smile this time – before picking up her fork. He made a few attempts to kick-start conversation as they ate.

"Have you ever been to the Life Café?" She nodded vaguely.

"A couple times. Not recently, though. And it was mostly just for the live music."

"You know, I actually used to play there a while ago. Guitar and stuff, mostly. Before we actually kicked off." He pointed to the bright logo on her T-shirt and her eyes widened.

"No freakin' way! You're in a band?"

"Well… Not anymore."

"Do you still play?" He paused, unsure how to answer. _No, no I don't. I don't even have a guitar anymore. I got rid of it after…_

"Uh… No. I haven't in a long time."

"Oh." Another silence descended, this time more comfortable. Abbi froze suddenly with a forkful of pancakes halfway to her lips. The colour slowly drained from her face, leaving her ashen. She bit down hard on her lip, stifling a sudden whimper.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"Mm-hmm. Back in a sec." She rose from the table and bolted. He watched her leave, confused but not all that concerned. His main thought was that her current issue was a female thing _(No need to go into detail there, Roger.) _A couple of minutes passed, and Abbi did not return. Worry mounted inside him, reaching a peak when a ditzy-looking redhead with bright green glasses and freckles approached him.

"Can I help you?"

"Um, hi. Are you here with the girl with the black and green hair? Y'know, about this tall?" She held out her hand at about his shoulder height. He nodded slowly.

"You might wanna get in there." She jabbed a red-lacquered fingernail at the bathroom door, pulling a face, before flouncing off to join her boyfriend at her table. Roger followed where she had pointed, anticipating the _Hey-you're-in-the-wrong-bathroom _look from everyone who was in there.  
Luckily for him, the only woman in the room was far too busy applying make-up to pay attention to her surroundings. One of the cubicle doors was half-open.

"Abbi?" he called nervously. The girl at the mirror paused in slicking on a double coat of lipgloss to snicker at him unpleasantly.

"Oh, so she's yours?" He ignored her and gave the door a push. Part of him didn't know what to expect. For all he knew she could have died of a sudden heart attack. Or else she was curled up on the tiles slashing her wrists open with the same knife she'd been using to cut into her pancakes. He came to so many different and horrifying conclusions that what he really saw was almost a relief. Abbi was kneeling on the floor, slumped over the toilet, trembling all over and being violently sick. He crouched behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened and let out a frightened gasp.

"Hey, relax. It's just me," he murmured, leaning away until her fit of sickness passed. She slowly raised her head and looked up at him, eyes streaming.

"Sorry about this." Her expression was regretful and slightly embarrassed.

"Forget about it. It's okay." She half-smiled, gagged and dropped forward again. He held her steady as she retched and when she was done he let her fall back against his chest, breathless and exhausted. He passed her some scrunched up toilet paper and she wiped her mouth, shuddering a little. They both stood and made for the door, catching the stony gaze of Make-up Girl. She arched a perfectly plucked brow, looking disgusted. Abbi gave her the finger and let Roger lead her out.

* * *

"Jesus. I am so, so sorry," Abbi said for the hundredth time as they both walked home. She couldn't believe what had just happened. One minute she'd been pretty much okay, and the next… _Ugh._

"I already told you, don't worry about it. Happens to the best of us, believe me." She stumbled up the long flight of stairs, clinging to his arm. Roger unlocked the door and pushed her gently over the threshold. She crossed over to the sofa and sat there, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, staring down at the floor between her shoes. He came and sat beside her. A weird chill passed through her, bringing her out in a convulsive shivering fit. He wrapped the discarded blanket around her and rested one hand on her shoulder.

"Abbi," he said slowly. "I'm going to ask you a very serious question. You're probably gonna hate me for it, but I need you to answer truthfully, okay?" She nodded uncertainly. "When was the last time you shot up?" She pulled away from him quickly.

"No… You've got the wrong girl. This is probably just some virus. Lot of it about this time of year, y'know."

"I think I know heroin withdrawal when I see it," he replied gently. "The chills, the sickness, it all adds up." Anger coursed through her as his words hit home.

"What the hell do you…? You can't just accuse somebody like that! We've literally just met and now you're calling me a fucking junkie?!" She got up, unsteadily, and stormed towards the door. He held her back by the arm. For a while she struggled, but his grip did not loosen and she just stopped.

"Abbi," he said softly. She ignored him. "Abbi? I need to show you something. Please, just trust me."

"Can I?" she spat without turning her head.

"Yes. Now turn around and take a look at this." Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed. He took a step towards her and started rolling up his sleeve. She closed her eyes.

"Look," he instructed firmly. She peeked out between half-closed eyelids. The bare skin of his arm was scarred with multiple track marks, the hallmarks of persistent needle use.

"Roger…" she whispered in disbelief, touching the marks with her fingertips to see if they were actually real and not just a trick of the light.

"Yeah. I used to do it too." He took her hand and led her back over to the sofa.

"Now, I'm gonna ask again. When was the last time you took heroin?" She looked down, counting on her fingers.

"Um… Must've been some time yesterday evening, before we fought. Yep." She nodded with conviction.

"And you're evidently an ad… A regular user." She gave him a wry smile.

"Nah, just say the word. I'm a freakin' smack addict."

"Abbi, you're going through withdrawal. It's your body and mind's natural reaction to a lack of the drug you are used to taking. From this point on you have two options: Option 1, you leave here now, do whatever it is you have to do to earn money – that's not my business – and be shootin' up again by lunchtime. Your symptoms will ease off, by tonight you'll be back to your old self.  
"But, in a few months' time, when you're on the streets whoring yourself to pay for the next hit, you'll remember back to this conversation, and wish you'd picked option 2. Stay here. I can help you through the rest of the withdrawal period. It won't be easy, I can't lie about that. There will be times when you'll be willing to kill someone for just the tiniest hit. There will be other times when the pain in your body will be so intense you'll feel like screaming. But I'll be here for you; I'll help you through it. Every step of the way." There was a long period of silence. Abbi began picking at her nail varnish again, letting tiny black flakes fall to the floor at her feet. Roger stood up.

"Your choice." His voice had suddenly gone toneless. She got the strange feeling that he was angry at her.

"Roger," she said nervously. He turned round to face her again. Their eyes met. His were cold and blank; emotionless. "I want to get clean. I want to stop." A huge smile lit up his face.

"Glad to hear it. He patted her on the arm, and scooted into the kitchen. "Tea?" She smiled and wrinkled up her nose a little.

"Not really a tea fan." He shot her a mischievous look as he assembled mugs and teabags.

"Trust me. You'll convert, I swear." She giggled.

"Whatever you say." She watched as he crossed over to the kitchen, pulling her blanket a little tighter around herself as she shivered again. _Why is it so cold in here? _She watched him prepare things in the kitchen, boiling the kettle and assembling mugs and teabags. He poured water into both mugs and left them for a couple of minutes, before adding milk to both and a generous amount of sugar to one of them. He pressed the steaming mug into her lightly trembling hands and watched as she took a cautious sip. She caught his eye and smiled. _Okay. That wasn't so bad, surprisingly enough._

"Told you so," he said in a sing-song voice before she had a chance to speak. She rolled her eyes and continued to drink slowly. He sat beside her with his own drink, and a comfortable silence ensued. Abbi settled herself beside him, placing her mug on the floor where it couldn't be knocked over. She felt tired, but at the same time restless, like she often did after drinking way too much coffee in an attempt to stay up late: the need for sleep was intense, her eyes were practically closing, but her body felt too full of energy to allow her to settle. Her heart felt like it was beating faster than it should, the sort of sensation she normally associated with tension and stress. She only knew one sure-fire cure for that. _Fuck, I need a hit. Now. _Her mind wandered to the little bag she had lost the previous night. _What if it fell out of my pocket in this room? It could still be here now. _She dropped to her knees on the floor and began feverishly plucking at discarded candy wrappers and bits of paper, hunting in vain for her lost treasure.

"Sorry Abbi, but you won't find any here," Roger said quietly, as if he had read her mind.

"You sure?" She continued to search, moving her hands in wide sweeps, coming up with all sorts of crap, and an entire colony of dust bunnies, but no beautiful white powder. He stood beside her and tried to pull her upright. She resisted his efforts, pulling away and resuming her frantic search.

"No! I bet I can find some. I just need a tiny hit, that's all!"

"You remember what I told you about first going through withdrawal? You're gonna have cravings like this. The important part is trying to ignore them."

"You don't understand. I just need a little hit, just one to make me feel better, and then I'll be able to stop."

"Exactly my point. You're always going to want that one last hit."

"No, you don't get it! It's my heart. It's going way too fast." _And only getting faster. "_All I wanna do is slow it down, and it'll be okay. I'll be okay. I'll stop, I swear." She pressed one hand hard against her chest, trying to slow the relentless beating herself. It didn't work.

"Please!" she begged. "Just one to make it all go away. I'll stop right after, I promise!" Her breathing hitched, and she started to hyperventilate. Her entire body felt unbearably tense, like she was about to just fly apart into irreparable shards. She wrapped her arms tightly around her midsection to try and hold herself together. More than anything in the world, she longed for the blissful relief of heroin, the numbness and coolness creeping through her veins, smothering the restless currents sparking there. Roger got down to her level and gently took her hand.

"I know how you feel. But you need to try and calm down, okay? Here…" He positioned himself behind her, took a hold of her shoulders and gently helped her to lean back against him. She resisted at first, but finally let go, resting against his chest.

"You can feel my heartbeat?" She nodded. "Pay attention to mine, and try to block yours out. And breathe too. With me: in… out." She did her best to copy his breathing pattern, synchronizing the rise and fall of her own chest with his. The blood was still pulsing unbearably in her veins, but it felt as though it was slowing down a little. Matching its erratic beat to Roger's steady rhythm.

"Good," he murmured. "Just keep doin' that. You're doing really great." She closed her eyes, listening to his voice. She gradually felt herself calming down. And with the calm came a sudden realization: _This is gonna be absolute hell._

**A/N: Okay, I've never actually had a withdrawal of any kind, so I Googled the symptoms, and I hope that that was a relatively accurate description. If not, let me know, okay? For those of you wondering as to when Mark is gonna show up (Gasell, this one's for you) he will be making his arrival in the next chapter. And yes, I'm aware the tea thing was OOC. I'm British, shoot me. And I still feel kind of...off about the latter half of this chapter, but I've read it about three times now and can't seem to put my finger on why.  
****So, review, constructive criticisms and pointers are welcome, but flames only serve to fuel my incendiary wit ;) (I'm running out of flame jokes now... Sorry, MadameFanzel)**


	4. Return

**Chapter 4- Return**

**A/N: Here it is, as promised (assuming anyone's still reading). The return of Mr Cohen.**

A lone figure armed with only a video camera poked his head out of a dimly lit alleyway and glanced left and right before proceeding out of his hiding spot, grimacing as the rain he had sought to avoid drenched him. He whipped towards the nearest payphone and slipped all of his loose change into it. He pressed a button and dialled the number that had been ingrained on his memory.

"_Hello?"_

"Roger, its Mark. Listen-" There was a click, and the call cut off. Mark glowered down at the phone in his hand. _All right. Fine. You wanna play it like that…_

He knocked boldly on the door, for once feeling relieved that the door had no peephole and that he couldn't be seen. _I'm sorry, but you brought this on yourself. _The door slid open and he glanced up hopefully.

"What do you…? Oh. Mark. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hey, Roger. How are you doin'?"

"When I said I didn't want you coming around here anymore, I meant it, you know. Go home."

"I've been worried about you. I haven't heard a thing since…you know…" He broke off as Roger gave him the coldest look he had ever seen.

"Maybe there was a reason for that. Just get out of here." Instead of immediately leaving, Mark peered over his once best friend's shoulder at the sofa.

"Who's the girl?" Roger put a finger to his lips.

"She's sleeping. Leave her alone." Mark squinted.

"She doesn't look too great. What's going on?"

"That's none of your business. Now please, just go." He made to shut the door, but Mark intercepted, wedging the toe of his shoe in between the door and the doorframe, almost breaking his foot in the process.

"Roger…" he said. A pause, a sigh and the door slid open again.

"You can't just cut yourself off from the rest of us and not expect anyone to care."

"Watch me." He drew away and slammed the door shut in Mark's face.  
_All right, now I'm pissed. _He hammered again on the door, and was not surprised when he did not receive a reply. With an evil smirk, he withdrew something from his pocket. His old spare key to the apartment, from back when he and Roger were roommates. He slipped it into the lock and twisted it, letting himself back in.

"Okay, technically this doesn't count as trespassing because you're the one who gave me the key in the first…" He tailed off as he took in the scene before him. Roger was sitting on the sofa beside the girl, holding her thin shoulders as she dry-heaved into a plastic bowl in her lap. There was an indescribable look in his eyes as he rubbed her back; but it was a look that Mark had seen before. Only once before. He found himself remembering back to a time long before any of this, to a scene almost identical to the one he was seeing now:

"_Don't worry, baby. You can get through this," Roger murmured to Mimi as she doubled over the kitchen sink for what had to be the tenth time that afternoon._

"_What's going on? Is she okay?" Mark questioned nervously._

"_Withdrawal. It just started last night." He put a protective arm around his girlfriend's shoulders as she drew away from the sink and curled up against his chest._

"_Sorry you had to see that, Mark," Mimi said with a rueful smile, running a hand through her long, tangled hair. She clutched her stomach as another cramp took hold, this time almost bringing her to the floor. Roger held her upright, enfolding her in his arms as tenderly as any mother. His eyes were burning with a strange intensity as he reassured her over and over that everything was going to be okay. _

Roger looked up momentarily and caught him staring.

"Mark…" he began helplessly, still engaged in his other task.

"Is she…? Who is she, anyway?"

"She's just a friend. Kinda. It's complicated, all right?" Mark gave a knowing nod.

"Yeah. I get it." _It's just like Mimi. She's another junkie. _"Anyway, mind if I come in?" Roger glared at him for a second, before returning his attentions to the task at hand.

"You're already in."

"No, I mean all the way in." He did not give a reply this time around, so Mark took it as a yes. Anyway, his friend was too busy to care. The skinny sick-looking teen had quit retching for the time being, but she kept her head lowered and her breathing was heavy and laboured.

"All done?" Roger asked softly.

"I'll get back to you on that," she replied in a breathless voice, still not daring to move. He chuckled and briefly felt her forehead, testing its temperature against his own.

"You've got a bit of a fever," he mused. She shook her head.

"Nuh-uh. It's you. Cold hands." He smiled.

"We'll see. Be right back." He lightly picked up the bowl and headed off towards the bathroom. Mark took that as his cue and edged in to introduce himself, casually sitting beside her.

"Hey," he said quietly. She raised her head slowly and flashed him a weak smile.

"Hi." Her voice was tiny, perfectly matching her pocket-sized physique. He extended a hand.

"Mark Cohen," he said by way of introduction, then, touching his camera, "filmmaker. Well, kinda." She laughed faintly and took his hand in hers, lightly shaking it. Her fingers felt hot.

"Abbi. Heroin addict." He raised his eyebrows.

"Really? Never would've guessed." It was a weak attempt at a joke, but it had the desired effect. She giggled, then doubled up, hands over her stomach. He tensed, ready to take action or call for help as needed, but she relaxed and straightened up without mishap. She grimaced apologetically, running her hands through her raven-black cheekbone-length hair, matting to her forehead with the perspiration that was beading there.

"Mark?" she said huskily. "What did you do to piss Roger off so much?" He paused, playing with his scarf as he searched for a decent answer.

"It's kind of a long story."

"Well, I've got all the time in the damn world right now, so…" She wriggled about a little, settling into a more comfortable position on the sofa.

"Well… It happened a while ago. Roger met this girl, right, by the name of Mimi. We're talking standard: boy meets girl, girl likes boy etc. Anyway, Mimi had this illness." He paused, thinking of the best way he could to skirt round the subject of AIDS. "And they managed to bond over that. But eventually, it got to her. She died, not too long ago, actually. And since then, none of us have heard from him. He doesn't even answer his phone anymore."

"He answered you a minute ago," Abbi chimed in. He nodded thoughtfully.

"True. But that was probably because he wasn't concentrating."

"Who wasn't concentrating?" Roger picked the perfect moment to make his re-entry. Mark made an offhand comment about someone he'd met on the subway, and Abbi backed him up with some vigorous nodding.

"Whatever. I got you these." He held out his hand, on which rested a couple of pills. "Should help get your temperature down a little." She stared at the tablets, eyes wide.

"N-no. No drugs," she whispered with sudden terror in her voice. "Please."

"Abbi, it's just aspirin. They're safe." She shrank away.

"No, I told Roger, I promised him I wouldn't take any more drugs." Her eyes had become wild and delirious and she didn't seem to recognise him anymore.

"Hey, it's me. I swear to you, these are fine. They'll make you feel better."

"No," she hissed. "Roger told me, he said it would hurt more if I tried to go back." He tried to reach out and touch her, to soothe her, but she knocked away his outstretched hand and got to her feet, making for the far wall as though pursued by demons. She started shaking again, violent paroxysms of pure fear. Her eyes were huge, the pupils dilated. She held her hands up in front of her as if to fend off attack.

"You keep away from me! Leave me alone!" Mark took one look at the fevered mania in Abbi's face and decided to keep his distance. He knew that people in withdrawal tended to be unnaturally aggressive, having witnessed both Mimi and Roger go through the exact same thing. But Roger seemed to know what he was up against and approached without fear.

"Abbi," he said soothingly. "You know who I am, don't you? You know that I'd never hurt you." He spoke as you would to a terrified child, not raising his voice and holding eye contact. Slowly she lowered her arms and took one step towards him, seeming to have recovered from her momentary panic.

"Roger?" she whimpered, looking around like a sleepwalker who has just come round.

"I'm right here. It's okay. You're okay."

"Oh God. What's happening to me?" She stumbled forward again and nearly fell, but caught her balance just in time.

"It's okay. You just panicked a little. That's normal."

"Yeah. But nobody died this time, so you're good," Mark cut back in with a wry smile. Roger blanked him but Abbi gave him a tiny smile in response. Roger touched her arm gently.

"C'mon. Let's get you out of here." He began to guide her from the room. Mark watched them leave, wondering who he felt sorrier for.

* * *

Abbi let herself be coaxed into bed, reluctant to do so but too tired to try to argue. There was an odd crawling sensation working its way into her arms and she fought to resist an urge to scratch.

"You stay here," Roger instructed her. "I'll go fix you some lunch."

"I'm not hungry."

"That's understandable. But you're only gonna feel worse if you don't eat anything. And trying to take tablets on an empty stomach will only make you sick." She sighed.

"But if I eat something I'll just throw it back up anyway. I know I will." His turn to sigh.

"Just something little. Toast? I can do toast." She rolled her eyes and sank back onto the pillow.

"You're the boss." He left the room, closing the door on her. For a second she was grateful for the silence, but then it started to freak her out. She could hear the minute ticking of the alarm clock on the nightstand, and in the tiny room it sounded deafeningly loud. The itching sensation in her arms began to intensify, and she began to absently scratch them with her fingernails. But the more she did so, the worse it became, so she just scratched harder. Roger came back, bearing toast, and saw what she was doing to herself. He put the plate down and seized hold of her wrist, stopping her.

"Abbi, stop," he ordered. She pulled her wrist back out of his grip.

"It's itchy!" she insisted, continuing to scrape up and down her arms. He once again took a hold of her, more gently this time around.

"You're hurting yourself." She looked down, wondering what he was talking about. Her left arm had been clawed raw and there was blood under her nails. The wounds she had inflicted only began to hurt now she was aware of them. Blood beaded up in the deep scratches. She stared at it, transfixed. She ran her fingers over the blood, smearing it, and glanced at her fingertips, at the crimson streaks that now stained them. She held them out to Roger, glancing up at him guiltily. He gently laid a hand on her shoulder. Tears began to well up in her eyes; she didn't even attempt to hold them back. With a gasping sob, she buried her head in his chest.

"I don't understand! Why is this happening to me? I'm going fucking insane!" He gently patted her back.

"You're not. I promise. This is all normal."

"I hate it!" She continued to cry, frustrated beyond the point of endurance. Roger held her tightly, just letting her cry.

"This is all your fault!" she yelled into his chest. Her words were muffled, but she knew he had heard because he suddenly tensed. "You made me like this! You're the one who made me stop!" He didn't reply to her, but she kept on.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?" She wriggled away from him and stood up. Her legs did not seem willing to hold her up, but she knew she had to get away anyway. Roger stood up, holding out his hands, but she did not go back to him.

"You can't make me stay here!" She lunged for the door, but he was much faster, grabbing hold of both of her arms and restraining her. She fought viciously against her captor, wrestling them both to the ground in an attempt to escape. He held fast, his grip unbreakable.

"No! Let me _go! _Let me get out of here!" He refused to yield, no matter how aggressively she fought. Her strength slowly began to wane and fade. She struggled until she was physically incapable of doing so anymore. Eventually she was still again, feeling the unbearable mile-a-minute pounding of her heart against her ribcage. Roger picked her up as though she were no lighter than a ragdoll and placed her on the bed.

"Okay now?" he asked, keeping his head bent and his eyes lowered. She nodded uncertainly, still gasping for breath. He stood up, briefly indicated the plate of toast on the nightstand and left without another word.

* * *

The bedroom door clicked shut, snapping Mark out of his reverie. Roger crossed over to the sofa, his arms tightly folded across his chest. Mark could see the beginnings of some impressive bruises on his best friend's face, and his lip was split and bleeding.

"Holy shit," he murmured. "How'd you…?" Roger said nothing, but pointed at the door. Mark blanched.

"Huh. I was gonna go in there and see how she was doin', but now I think I'll leave it." He smiled wryly, trying to elicit some form of positive reaction from Roger. Not a flicker. "It's funny; I don't remember you being _quite_ that aggressive." Roger shrugged.

"Must be a female thing," he deadpanned, picking up a washcloth from the arm of the sofa and soaking it at the kitchen sink, tentatively dabbing at the blood on his mouth. "You should probably go now, Mark."

"After that little episode? I don't think so."

"I can deal with this on my own."

"Obviously." Mark folded his arms and fixed him with a hard look. "You may not remember your own withdrawal, but I certainly do. And I'm not gonna let you deal with this alone. It's dangerous."

"Thanks for your concern, but I think I can handle more of this." He pointed to the marks on his face.

"It's not you I'm worried about. It's her. Remember how many times you had to go to hospital during yours? And that was _with_ Collins and me helping you out." Roger opened his mouth to speak again, but instead gave a defeated sigh and cast his eyes down to the floor. Mark smiled triumphantly.

"Fine. Just till she's over the worst of it though, okay?"

"Of course." A beat of silence followed as they eyed each other. "Looks like she did quite a number on you."

"We're currently at the paranoia stage." Mark chuckled softly.

"Ah, I remember it well." Their eyes met, and there was no hostility in Roger's. For the first time in over a month, he smiled at him.

"Thanks for coming back."

"No problem, though I wasn't really prepared for…" He made a few vague gestures.

"Yeah, me too."

"But if Mimi was anything to go on, this should be fun."

**A/N 2: it may have become obvious to you as readers (along with the fact I mentioned it last chapter) but I'm not American. So if anyone's dialogue starts to sound OOC/British, just let me know :)  
****As usual, reviews and constructive criticism would be great, but flames just...help me to ignite the night with passionate fire. **


	5. Of Awkward Symptoms and Lesbian Exes

**Chapter 5- Of Awkward Symptoms and Lesbian Exes**

**A/N: Lousy title, I know. But since this is a pretty lousy chapter, I guess it fits.**

It was eerily quiet for a couple of hours. Roger assumed that Abbi had fallen asleep, and there was no sound or movement from his room to tell him otherwise, so he felt it best to let her be. True to his word, Mark stuck around, speaking up when he felt he was needed and staying quiet when he didn't. For the most part, it was peaceful. But rather than reassure him, it only made Roger wary of an oncoming storm. He kept glancing over at the closed door, just waiting for a cry, a half-conscious scream, anything that meant trouble. But, there was nothing. Mark caught him looking at the door and briefly touched his arm.

"Relax," he said firmly. "She's okay." The door could not have picked a better time to open. Abbi stumbled over the threshold, looking mildly sleepy but otherwise okay.

"Hey," he said quietly. She smiled briefly and waved. "How're you feeling now?" She shrugged.

"Okay, I guess."

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom." He let himself relax. She seemed all right to him, a little shaky, but otherwise just fine. Still, he didn't take his eyes off of her until the bathroom door closed, and even then Mark had to nudge him.

"See? Told you so." True enough, the worst thing that Abbi seemed to be suffering from when she re-emerged was a serious runny nose.

"I don't get it," she complained, sniffling into a big bundle of tissues. "What does this have to do with heroin?" He smirked.

"I never understood that part either. Still, it's better than some of the other stuff." She nodded.

"Agreed." He gestured to the seat next to him and she sat down, curling up tightly. Casual, meaningless conversation took over, and Roger let himself fully relax. _You see? She's just fine now. _However long this newfound peace would last was a mystery, but for now he was just grateful that she wasn't trying to kill him for another hit of heroin. He tried to remember how long the worst of his own withdrawal had lasted, but most of that time was pretty hazy for him. And Mimi… well, her clean period hadn't lasted long enough to use as a suitable gauge. But he estimated, if things kept going at the rate they were, it would be about a week, possibly two, before Abbi's withdrawal started to ease off. Not counting any accidents, slip-ups or relapses that could occur in the meantime. She suddenly nudged him.

"What'd you do to your face?" She reached out and gently touched one of the bruises with her finger. He tried not to recoil. "What did I miss?" She didn't seem to remember what had happened a mere two hours ago. And he certainly wasn't going to remind her. Mark was staring intently at him, his expression completely bewildered. He just shrugged nonchalantly.

"Nothing. I just, uh, walked into a door." She raised her eyebrows.

"Must've been some door." Mark smirked at him, but didn't say a word.

The storm he had predicted finally struck about an hour later. All was quiet and calm until he felt Abbi suddenly stiffen beside him. She swayed to her feet.

"Uh, I suddenly don't feel too good," she said quietly. "Think I'm gonna go lie down for a minute." Roger watched as she slowly made her way for the bedroom door, before freezing where she stood and sprinting for the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.

"Shit," Roger said quietly, realising what she was doing. He started to get up, but Mark held him back.

"I'll take care of this."

"You sure?"

"She didn't seem in the mood for throwing any punches to me. I'll be fine."

* * *

_You're gonna regret opening your mouth, Cohen. _He gave a tentative couple of knocks and eased the door open. Yep, there was Abbi, on her knees beside the toilet. He crouched beside her and touched her shoulder.

"Roger?" she choked before another wave of sickness came over her.

"No, it's me. It's Mark." It was another couple of minutes before she could lift her head again.

"Get out of here. You don't need to see this." She tried to push him away, but he easily fielded all of her gentle blows. When she gave up trying to get rid of him and just settled for ignoring him, he cautiously assumed the classic position for this particular situation, rubbing her back in slow, gentle little circles. She laughed shakily.

"You've obviously had practise doing this before," she commented.

"Don't sound so surprised," he said, filling a glass with water and passing it to her. "Of course I've done this before. I did have a girlfriend once, you know." _And I stuck with Roger when he was as bad as you are now._

"You did?"

"Yeah, she left me for somebody else."

"What's his name?" she asked innocently.

"Joanne," he replied smoothly without skipping a beat. Abbi laughed and almost choked on her water. She turned her back and rinsed out her mouth, and accepted his outstretched hand to pull herself to her feet again.

"Joanne?" she repeated incredulously. He nodded slowly and seriously, completely setting her off again.

"I don't see what everyone finds so funny about the fact that my girlfriend left me for a woman, you know," he said sternly to the hysterically giggling heroin addict.

"Oh…come on, Mark. It is…kinda funny," she managed to gasp out. He folded his arms adamantly.

"Not even _slightly_ funny. Now c'mon, before Roger thinks you've died in here." She followed him out, still fighting back laughter.

**A/N 2: this one's shorter than some of my others. Sorry, guys :) Um, the next chapter may be a while in arriving as I just exhausted my supply of stock chapters, but I'll work extra hard to get something up here as soon as possible. Leave a review if you're enjoying, or not, or possibly just wanting to whack me across the back of the head with a copy of the DVD (whichever one you happen to own, if you own one at all.) Any one of these options will be gratefully accepted, I don't mind, but flames will just...cause Evita to suffer more in Doggy Hell or something, I don't know...**


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